


As The World Falls Down

by feeltherain



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-19
Updated: 2011-09-19
Packaged: 2017-10-23 21:27:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/255183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feeltherain/pseuds/feeltherain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Douglas has a health scare and finds himself a lot less unflappable than he'd thought.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As The World Falls Down

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this prompt](http://cabinpres-fic.livejournal.com/1249.html?thread=1723873#t1723873). Technically it is a fill I suppose but I don't know if it's what the OP wants completely so I'm just going to say heavily inspired by for now.
> 
> Really, very nervous about this one, I'm not entirely sure it's good enough but i really hope so. I've probably taken some horrible liberties for which I am terribly sorry. I did do a fair bit of research *points at notebooks* see? But it is entirely probable that I got many things wrong. Anyway I'll stop babbling now. Please comment, it makes my day, truly.
> 
> The usual thank you so very very much to [crocodile_eat_u](http://crocodile-eat-u.livejournal.com/) for being my beta and person to whine at hopelessly. Without her this fic would be in my documents folder forever, so if its awful blame her :P.
> 
> Thank you for reading (assuming that you still do).

They have been together now for three years, five months and...no...wait, that isn’t technically true. They have been sleeping together for three years...no, still not right. They have been shagging for three years, five months and seventeen days. Shagging with sticky skin and splayed limbs. Taut muscles and loud voices. They have been together in a relationship, not that either of them calls it that, for three years, four months and ten days. It took them that long.

Martin has been away for the weekend, doing his familial duty at his mother’s house, comparing life success with Caitlin and Simon. No matter what they say, he still reckons he wins every time. Douglas isn’t expecting him home for a good few hours yet. Dinner is planned and sitting patiently in the fridge, the wine for Martin is there too as is the orange juice for Douglas and the man himself is standing under the warm shower. His limbs soak up the heat as the water flows over his skin and he stretches happily. Life is good.

His hand drifts down over his stomach to his cock and he smiles a bit, tilting his head back into the shower spray. His fingers continue wandering, down past his cock feeling the rough skin of his scrotum. They go further until his hand brushes something more firm, something that shouldn’t be there. Just a small something, a little bump of cells, no more. His whole body tenses as he frowns and touches it again.

Martin gets home three hours and twenty minutes earlier than he’d told Douglas he would. He wanted to surprise him. After a quick glance around the living room and kitchen he follows the sounds of the shower up to the bathroom. He tests the handle and smirks when he finds the door unlocked. Inside, all he can see through the fog of steam is Douglas’ back, one arm hanging limply by his side while the other is tucked in front of him. Martin raises a knowing eyebrow and begins to undress.

Douglas’ frown unfolds into wide eyes when a hand suddenly covers his and wraps its long, elegant fingers around him, giving a few languid strokes. Dry lips kiss his wet shoulder and bony hips press into his back when a body tries its best to align itself with his. He breathes out a sigh, half from relief, half from the gentle squeeze of Martin’s hand.

“You,” Douglas accuses quietly, “aren’t meant to be home yet. I haven’t even started dinner.”

Martin twists his hand and suddenly all is forgiven. He chuckles against Douglas’ skin then yelps when the First Officer quickly turns and winds his arms around him.

“Come here,” Douglas whispers. And they kiss, slowly and tenderly and any thoughts he had of lumps and cells are washed away down the plughole.

Except when the air has cooled and Martin is draped over him, fast asleep and still damp from the shower, the thought returns. Douglas tickles Martin’s arm and when the only response is a sniffle and a small shift closer, he begins to move his other hand down his chest, feeling a slight film of sweat on his abdomen. His hand goes further downwards, dipping past his pelvic bone creeping down and down. A few drops of water fall from Martin and splatter on his hand. He stills, instantly wondering if he is being foolish, dramatic, but common sense ignores the icy warning and he presses on. He runs his fingers along his flaccid penis, smirks a bit at vague memories then pauses. With a swallow and a final check to make sure that Martin is still asleep, he feels further, forces his fingers onwards until he feels it, right where it was before. Something that can only be described with two heavy, baggage laden words: a lump.

He lets out a long breath and feels again. There’s no mistaking it. _It could be anything_ , he thinks. _Everyone feels a lump and thinks the c word. It could be anything_. He feels again and lets out another, shakier breath. He’s known people who’ve had cancer, he’s seen it, he’s seen men die of it. _It could be anything_. Everything tenses again and he can feel panic trying to fight his usual unflappable self. _It could be anything._

“What’s wrong?” asks a sleepy Captain looking up at Douglas’ worried eyes with a tired, lopsided frown.

“Nothing,” he says, guiding Martin’s head back to his chest. “Go to sleep.”

Martin mutters something that is too muffled to be properly audible but could be ‘if you’re sure’. Douglas waits until the tiny puffs of breath against his skin are in the shallow pattern of sleep then kisses the dampened curls tickling his neck. He doesn't sleep a wink.

~*~

Their flight the next morning is a short one to Glasgow, though why anyone would choose to go there Douglas has no idea, and between Arthur dealing with the coffee orders in an appalling Scottish accent and Martin losing the entire cheese tray to him in a game of ‘films with heat related titles’, he doesn’t have enough time to worry. The joke cabin address incorporating as much Robert Burns poetry as he could also distracts Carolyn with the number of complaints she then diligently passes on to Douglas in a caricature of perfect customer relations. With Carolyn’s fury, the lump was far, far from his mind.

The trip after that is two days later and longer and involves an overnight stay in New York which is fast becoming one of Martin’s favourite cities. Maybe because the hotel Carolyn books there is actually inhabitable. After the flight and after the meal they have in a restaurant a couple of streets away, they all return to their rooms and Martin and Douglas settle in, listening to the sounds of the city drift in through the open window.

Martin sighs contentedly, nuzzling closer into Douglas’ shoulder. “This is nice,” he murmurs. Douglas hums his agreement. “I could stay like this forever.”

“Me too,” Douglas says but in the back of his mind a beast growls and he thinks, _could I?_

Thoughts of the lump return when the conversation stops and Martin’s drifts off into sleep. His fingers itch but he keeps his hands clenched in fists by his side. _What if nothing about it has changed?_ he asks his panic imperiously. _What if it has? What if it’s bigger? What if it is_... his panic replies. He doesn't have the energy to argue.

An hour goes by with three thousand six hundred ticks stabbing his ears. Half way through the hour he rolls over and takes the batteries out of the clock but he still hears them even then. He is no closer to sleep and it becomes obvious that he isn’t going to be tonight and so carefully rising from the bed, he dresses back in his uniform shirt and trousers and goes down to a place that he is familiar with, the hotel bar. There is always someone there with a mournful tale to tell that will put his completely in the shade.

Meeting Carolyn, therefore, is not what he had in mind. She sits on a chair in front of a tired looking barman nursing a fluorescent cocktail. She turns as he approaches and raises an eyebrow.

“Of all the gin joints in all the world, Douglas,” she says sardonically.

Douglas sits down next to her, orders an orange juice and gives her a sideways glance.

“There is only so much of Arthur singing ‘New York, New York’ that I can take until I no longer become responsible for my actions,” she explains, sipping the cocktail. Douglas nods in understanding.

For a while they sit in companionable silence, drinking their respective drinks. Douglas fiddles with his glass. Carolyn eats the cherry from her bright pink concoction.

“What is that?” Douglas asks eventually.

“You know I’m not entirely sure. I just asked for something bright and frighteningly alcoholic.”

He smiles and finishes his juice.

“Go on then,” Carolyn says.

“What?”

“What’s the face for?”

“What are you talking about, this is just my face.”

“No,” Carolyn says pretending to examine him critically. “No, your face is never usually this long, or so miserable looking.” Douglas looks away at his empty glass. “What’s happened?” Carolyn asks rolling her eyes.

Douglas frowns and remains silent for a long time staring deeply into the dregs of fruit juice in his glass. Carolyn frowns too, instantly sensible, instantly serious.

“What is it?” she asks. “You’d better not be leaving MJN.”

Douglas doesn't even smile a little.

“No,” he says quietly, “I just...I found a...a lump.”

She breathes in sharply, letting it out in one long exhale. “I see,” she says weakly. “Have you seen a doctor?” Douglas shakes his head. “What is it with men and visiting the doctor?”

“It’s probably nothing,” he says, choosing to ignore the jibe.

“But you’re still worried.” Douglas nods. “Then why not go to put your mind at ease?” Douglas doesn't reply. _Because that isn’t the way men think_ , Carolyn says to herself ruefully.

“Have you told Martin?”

“Of course not,” Douglas he says, snapping his head up to meet Carolyn’s stern eyes.

“Douglas, go to a doctor,” she orders. He looks away and neither says anything more.

When the clock ticks into the next day, Douglas stands and starts to walk away.

“Douglas,” Carolyn calls from behind him.

“I know,” he says with a sigh and heads off back to his sleeping Captain. He distantly hears Carolyn order another frighteningly alcoholic cocktail as he steps into the rickety lift.

~*~

On the drive home from his GP, he contemplates the NHS. And the state of the doctor’s surgery. And the state of the British public. The harried receptionist, the pretty nurse, the hard chairs, the weather, the traffic, in fact anything at all to keep his mind away from the examination. The lingering feeling of embarrassment and near violation he still has. But of course he thinks about it.

Telling his GP, rather sheepishly, about the lump was one thing, the efficient manner in which his trousers were ordered down to his ankles was quite another and how had the man managed to ask questions in an even tone with his hand on Douglas’ bollocks? He was so very glad now that he hadn’t bothered to pursue a medical career further.

Half the questions had to be repeated before he heard them. How had his health been generally? Any other problems experienced? Any other symptoms? Had any of his relatives had cancer? And there it was. The C Word. Slipped in as if it wasn’t something deadly and frightening. He’d only been able to shake his head in answer. Luckily the introduction of a small torch into the proceedings had distracted him and the mild indignation at having a light shined on his genitalia while the doctor peered intently was enough to push the c word from his head for a moment. Well, the non-swearing c word anyway.

Then there was the slight furrow to the doctor’s brow. The way he thumbed the lump a little more then straightened with a look of consternation. They way he looked over to Douglas’ medical history, laid bare on a cold computer screen.

Douglas pulls into the side of the road and takes a shuddering breath while he clutches the steering wheel tightly. He has an appointment for three days time with a specialist. _A scrotal ultrasound, now doesn't that sound fun_ , he thinks wryly. If Martin were here that would be the joke he’d make. Or one of them. He looks over to the empty passenger seat not entirely sure he’s glad that Martin is safely tucked up at home, oblivious.

He indicates, listening to the ticking and hearing clocks everywhere, then pulls back into traffic quickly, flicking the indicator back off with his finger. He’s on his way back home now, thinking of a plausible excuse for where he’s been and for why he has to go out again in three days time.

~*~

On the morning of their next flight, Martin and Douglas arrive at the airfield at six o’ clock, Douglas having only just been reminded of the fact that such a time exists, and Carolyn immediately intercepts Douglas with a nod towards her office. Martin frowns as Douglas obediently follows her but soon Arthur is bounding up to talk to him about how brilliant it is to wake up before the sun does.

“Did you go to the doctor?”

“Yes.”

“Good. What did they say?”

“I have an ultrasound appointment in a couple of days.”

“Good, see you go to it.”

Conversation over.

Douglas leaves the office looking a bit sour. Carolyn sinks into her chair. _An ultrasound in a couple of days_ , she thinks, _quick work for the NHS_. She would never tell Douglas she’s worried. Never in a million years. Fairs fair, Douglas would never tell her that he’s worried too.

~*~

Painless.

The buzzword of the day, it seems.

“Don’t worry Mr. Richardson, the procedure is completely painless.”

He hasn’t known a single occasion when the word procedure indicated something painless. And he is right, in a way. The actually scan is painless. Uncomfortable certainly, embarrassing, but that it something he’s beginning to get used to, but not painful. That is until the poor intern drops the bottle of gel on Douglas’ foot.

He’s been talking with uncontained enthusiasm about the piezoelectric crystals in the transducer vibrating and the gel being essential in matching the acoustic impedance. It all goes over his over Douglas’ head but the young man reminds him so much of Martin that when the bottle hits his foot, he laughs harder than he has in days. It’s just such a Martin-y thing to happen.

But then that gets him thinking. Keeping Martin in the dark is unquestionably the right thing to do, undoubtedly, indisputably. But is it? Well of course it is, the boy would only worry and panic and then he wouldn’t be able to sleep either. But still, Douglas can’t help but wonder if all this would be easier with someone sitting next to him. Or nicer at least. Someone to listen to the medical jargon while he quietly thinks of worst case scenarios. What if it turns out that he does have...then what? He can’t keep Martin out of it forever. Carolyn wouldn’t let him for one thing.

“The results should be back in a week or so.”

That’s his cue to leave.

~*~

Bloody clocks.

Loud things, ticking all day long at full volume and there’s no need for it. Who needs to know the stupid time anyway? Well Carolyn does so she can tells them when waiting for the businessman from Birmingham, apparently such a thing exists Douglas was shocked, has reached its end and they can all go home to rooms that don’t leak.

But apart from that who needs to know the time? Or how fast it’s going. Or how little there could be left.

Carolyn calls him in to the office again when he and Martin arrive this morning. The conversation lasts even less time than the previous one.

“Did you go to the ultrasound?”

“Yes.”

“When do you get the results?”

“In a week or so.”

“Good.”

He sits at a desk watching the curve of Martin’s back as he hunches huffily over the logbooks, his and Douglas’ they don’t even negotiate that anymore, Martin knows that Douglas will make it up to him later. Arthur is sitting on the ancient sofa, rescued from somewhere they really didn’t want to know by the merry steward, humming Disney tunes to himself and tossing an apple from hand to hand. Carolyn is still in her office, her lair. He imagines her pacing, eyes intent with smoke billowing from her nostrils and he smirks.

The wave of sadness comes upon him so suddenly he nearly runs to the bathroom to hide it. The normality or stand by. The day to day running of MJN and through some accident of nature, some poor life choice, some throw of fate’s dice, he could never see it again. This could be the last time he sees the domesticity of the airline. The last time he sees the blissful smile on Arthur’s face as the apple flies from one hand to the other.

His heart feels heavy, tighter and he thinks, a heart attack, just what I need. But it isn’t a heart attack, of course. It’s a single tear falling from his left eye into the slightly grimy sink. He looks up into the mirror, into the dark eyes of his reflection. _Ridiculous man_ , he calls it, _one ultrasound and you’re falling to pieces._

“Grow up.”

He leaves and sits back at his desk. Arthur’s rhythm hasn’t altered a bit, neither has the imagined pacing of Carolyn. But Martin looks up when Douglas re-enters the portacabin and smiles at him. Douglas thinks about never kissing those lips again and nearly has to go back to the bathroom.

~*~

He gets a phone call from the hospital. They want him to come in for his results as soon as he can. As soon as...urgency. He doesn't like urgency, he knows what urgency means. Urgency is never good. Urgency means there’s no time to lose, which means his time is whizzing by, his egg timer is running out, his clock is ticking loudly and evermore slowly until it will grind painfully to a halt in a crunch of clockwork.

Unfortunately, as soon as he can is in two days time, when standby is over and he has the time to spare. He is awake at four o’clock in the morning, sleep evading him for the third day running. The sofa is not as comfortable as his bed or as warm as Martin but for thinking it is a pretty good place. He’s dreading going to the airfield in four hours time. He knows, he just knows that Carolyn will call him into that office again, the cavernous room where he sometimes expects to see bloodied body parts scattered around the floor. He knows she’ll ask about the results and he knows he’ll tell her. And she will see he’s scared and never again will he be Douglas Richardson in her eyes, he’ll just be a whimpering wreck.

Then she’ll make him tell Martin and how can he do that? How can he watch the pale face crumple? He’s only just got used to having the slightly bewildered Captain flitting around his, their home and Martin took a long time to get comfortable enough to make this house partly his, he doesn't want to throw everything in the air now.

He runs a hand through his hair. He isn’t ready for it to be serious yet. He wants another few years with Martin. Another few flights with MJN and another few standbys. He isn’t ready yet. And he doesn't think two more days is going to be enough time to get ready for whatever the doctor has to say.

~*~

True to form, Carolyn nods towards her office as soon as he steps through the door and he follows her unquestioningly.

“Got the results yet?”

“‘As soon as I can.’”

“Right. Have you told Martin?”

“No.”

“You should.”

“Alright.”

“Good.”

He will talk to Martin tonight. He doesn't know how, he doesn't know when, he doesn't know what he’ll say but as he leaves Carolyn’s office, he knows he will.

~*~

Martin is worried.

Douglas walks out of Carolyn’s office looking pensive and heads straight for his desk without even looking in Martin’s direction. He had smiled at Douglas as always, the conciliatory ‘at least she hasn’t fired you’ smile he gives after a trip to the dreaded office. But he’s been going in there before almost every trip lately. Spending no more than a minute and a half, his watch was good for timing things if nothing else, then coming out looking downcast and sighing.

But it couldn’t have been about the log books, Martin had been filling them out religiously. Douglas hadn’t been doing anything untoward recently. No smuggling, no, sorry, present exchanging, for months. He hadn’t even been rude to any clients. So what was Carolyn berating him for?

In fact, now that Martin thought about it, the lines on Douglas’ forehead that appear when he frowns have been becoming more pronounced. He’s not been sleeping properly, sometimes Martin wakes up in the middle of the night because Douglas’ comforting warmth is missing. And, although he would never complain about it, they haven’t had sex in a good while now. Don’t get him wrong he is not with Douglas for the sex, but by God was it a bonus and they hadn’t for...well for a good week. Sometimes they are both tired after a trip, sometimes he aches all over from a job with the van and sometimes he is perfectly content to lie in Douglas’ arms on the sofa while the hours creep slowly by.

But other times, he yearns for it and Douglas doesn't seem to anymore and Martin wonders if his time is up and Douglas is going off him and soon they will amicably part ways and, when the bags of his things are placed in his old van, he will feel his heart snap in two. Maybe the worry etched in Douglas’ skin is him trying to think of a way to end it without hysterics.

He watches Douglas’ haunted staring at the splintering wood and he hopes that whatever happens, it’ll be over soon.

~*~

“Martin...”

The phrase sitting someone down is never meant to be literal, but after dinner is eaten and the plates are drying by the sink, Douglas gently puts his hands on Martin’s shoulders and pushes him down onto the sofa.

Martin feels his stomach flip and he realises that this is it, Douglas has finally worked out how to do it. He hasn’t, Douglas has no idea what he is going to say but he knows the time has come anyway.

“Martin,” he begins, sounding authoritative in spite of mounting panic. “Martin...”

“What?” Martin says in a shaky voice. “Are you going to finally admit that it was you who broke the toaster?”

He doesn't know what made him say it. He knows it was Douglas. Douglas knows it was Douglas. But he knows that this is it, the end, and he wants to delay it as long as he can. If he can make Douglas laugh, make him happy, maybe he won’t leave after all.

“We don’t even need a toaster, Martin, it’s called a grill.”

“I knew it,” Martin calls triumphantly. “I knew I’d get you using it. I knew if I just gave you...”

“Martin,” Douglas interrupts firmly.

“What? Did you break something else? Oh tell me it wasn’t the kettle, Douglas...”

“Martin this isn’t about bloody kitchen appliances.”

“What then?”

“It’s... I have to...”

“Douglas?”

Douglas just shakes his head.

“Oh God, this is it isn’t it?” Martin cries. “You’re leaving me? Oh God, Douglas, please, please don’t I’ll...I’ll...” He starts crying and Douglas is stunned into silence. He’d expected an outpouring of emotion from Martin but it’s too soon.

“What? What on Earth...? Martin you...” he smiles fondly and sits down next to him on the sofa. Martin has just made the whole thing so much easier. “I’m not leaving you,” he says pulling Martin into a hug. _At least I hope not_ , he thinks grimly.

“Well then,” Martin sniffs into his shoulder, “why have you been so worried lately?”

Douglas takes a deep breath.

“I found a lump,” he says, “on my testicles and I went to the doctor who told me to get an ultrasound scan.”

“A lump?” Martin says quizzically. “You mean...what did the scan say?”

“I need to go and get the results in a couple of days. But Martin, whatever the scan says, whatever happens, I want you to...I just...”

“Oh God,” he breathes, shifting to look into Douglas’ eyes. “It could be...”

“But there is every likelihood that it isn’t,” Douglas says hurriedly. “I just thought you should know.”

There’s a heavy pause as both consider the news and each other.

“Well,” Martin says eventually, “better late than never.”

He smiles weakly and rests his head back on Douglas’ shoulder. Douglas’ kisses his temple squeezes his shoulder. Both are thinking the same thing: _it could be anything_.

~*~

Not a decent enough degree of certainty.

Couldn’t verify for sure.

Another procedure needed, a biopsy, he’s heard that word before.

Orchidectomy, that sounds serious.

Martin asks what it is and Douglas, who had been lost in the world of long medical words wakes up a little when the doctor explains it’s ‘removing the affected testicle’. His eyes shoot up to meet the doctor’s and it is all the poor man can do not to put his hands in the sign of a cross to ward off the expression of panic and anger on Douglas’ face. _You can bugger off if you think your taking one of my testicles_ , he thinks viciously, _cancer or no cancer_. But there it is again, that c word that keeps following him. It has even snuck into his thoughts now.

The doctor said that it’s sometimes the safer option but in some cases simply removing a sample of the tissue is sufficient. It soothed Douglas a little but his faith in piezoelectric crystals will never be the same again.

Martin looks like he’s fighting desperately not to have a panic attack, clinging onto Douglas’ hand for dear life. At least he’s listening, no doubt on the way home Douglas will get a thorough oral transcript of the conversation he shut out in favour of examining the stains on the carpet.

They leave with the surgery appointment booked for two days time. Urgency. He hates it when there’s urgency.

~*~

That night they have a row.

Not a serious one, not even a particularly loud one, but a row none the less at a time when they really don’t need one.

“Douglas, you’re being too blasé,” accuses Martin.

Douglas being Douglas disagrees. He points to the computer screen with all the statistics displayed in crisp black script.

“Testicular cancer only makes up around one percent of male cancers,” he says calmly.

“But it’s the single biggest cause of cancer related deaths,” Martin retorts, pointing at a damning line of text on the screen.

“Well aren’t we a little ray of sunshine,” Douglas snaps. “We don’t even know that it is cancer.”

“But what if it is? What then, we need to plan...”

“We don’t need to plan anything. One percent, Martin, chances are it’s nothing, just a lump of misplaced cells.”

“You can’t rely on luck all the time.”

“ _I_ can, Martin,” Douglas says, with a bit more of a snarl than he had meant to. “Besides, I’m not relying on luck, I’m relying on statistics. Statistically it’s very unlikely that...”

“And what about treatment, we need to start thinking about...”

“For God’s sake,” Douglas shouts. Martin freezes. “You are panicking over nothing! You need to calm down and stop being so bloody pessimistic.”

Neither move nor say a word. The clock on the wall loudly ticks away to itself. Douglas leaves the room after a while, muttering ‘I’m going to bed’ or something similar and stalking off to the bedroom. Martin hears the click of the lights on and off, the rustling of clothes and bed linen and sits on the sofa, hands clasped together in his lap.

“I’m scared,” he whispers to the empty room.

~*~

The next day they have a trip to Paris. They drive to the airfield in relative silence, Douglas at the wheel, of course. Martin stares out of the window at the passing trees and buildings, at life passing by the car in a blur.

When they come to a stop neither makes a move to leave the car. Douglas still has both hands on the wheel; Martin is still staring out the window.

“You know he would have recommended removing the testicle if he was relatively certain that the lump was cancerous. He’s just removing cells. It’s a good sign, Martin,” Douglas says encouragingly.

“You were listening then,” Martin grumbles. He opens the car door and stretches his legs onto the ground. “The main reason he isn’t removing it is because you all but threatened to disembowel him if he even tried.”

Douglas gets out of the car and stands, looking at Martin over the roof. “It wasn’t an idle threat, Martin,” he says slamming the door. “I would disembowel him.”

“Yes,” Martin mutters, rolling his eyes and following Douglas towards the portacabin. “I know you would.”

Carolyn intercepts Douglas on his way through and Martin mumbles ‘see if you can make him see sense’ as he trudges past her. Carolyn narrows her eyes.

“You told him?”

“Yes.”

“You got the results?”

“Yes”

“And?”

“Not a decent degree of certainty, biopsy tomorrow.”

“Good.”

Douglas slouches out of the door, ignoring Arthur’s acrobatic hello and sitting sulkily at his desk. Carolyn carefully sits down at hers, thinking deeply. _Tomorrow, that’s soon. That’s a lot of urgency. Then again if I had a patient like Douglas, I’d want to get rid of him as quickly as possible too._ She frowns at the phrasing. She really doesn't want to be rid of Douglas. If he isn’t here, who will tease the passengers with her?

~*~

“I’m sorry,” Martin says standing in front of the sofa, towering over Douglas who sits reading a book. Douglas eyes him over the pages. Martin shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other and doesn't look at Douglas directly. The book is cast aside and Martin is pulled down to curl against Douglas’ chest, legs folded over his lap.

“I’m sorry too,” Douglas says between kisses to Martin’s soft lips. “I shouldn’t have shouted.”

“I’m scared,” Martin whispers. “I don’t want...I don’t want to lose you.” He buries his face in Douglas’ shoulder.

“Hey now,” he coos. “Careless you may be Martin, but even you couldn’t misplace me.”

Martin sobs out a laugh and wraps his arms around Douglas’ waist.

“One percent,” he says into Douglas’ skin.

“One percent,” Douglas affirms and tightens his grip around Martin’ shoulders.

~*~

The appointment is in the afternoon, of course it is. After all what would a potential cancer patient be without a morning to spend worrying? Martin makes breakfast slowly, trying to take up as much time as he can, but there is only so much cooking the toast needs.

Douglas doesn't eat anything, his gut is churning already. He was never overly fond of hospitals, he supposed in his student days that when he became a doctor he would get used to it, but in becoming a pilot he saved himself from having to cross that particular bridge.

They don’t talk very much. Part of them fears descending into an argument again, another part fears revealing too much. Three years together and their pride still hide so much. Douglas will never tell Martin that he’s scared too. Martin will never tell Douglas if he died, he doesn't think he’d recover. They keep their secrets, one of the few Martin can keep with any degree of success, and they sit on the sofa, listening to the clock tick, tick, tick.

~*~

“How are you feeling?”

“Oh as well as can be expected with a stitch in my bollocks.”

“Oh wow, the great Douglas Richardson brought down by a stitch in the testicles.”

“Don’t shout it about everyone will want one.”

They start laughing. There’s not a lot else they can do. Douglas sits up in bed still looking a little pale and tired and Martin perches on the edge by his legs trying not to cry. Douglas’ hand rests on top of Martin’s in silent recognition of what the laughter hides, not that either of them would be so sentimental, not in front of the other anyway. The hilarity fades and they sit in silence listening to the noises of the hospital.

“When will you get the results?” Martin asks eventually.

“A week’s time they think.”

Martin nods slowly, considering. Douglas starts to stroke his fingers over Martin’s hand.

“We have another trip on Wednesday.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, Carolyn called a little while ago. Taking some people to a holiday resort in Majorca.”

“How the other half does live.”

“Yeah,” Martin says, smiling weakly. “Not a long one, not an overnight stay.”

Douglas nods into the awkward silence.

“Come on, I’m not going to sit here forever,” he says, lightly tapping Martin’s hand and beginning to rise. “Let’s go home.”

On the way home Martin drives and Douglas watches life pass by the window in a blur.

~*~

“So then, on balance, what did you think of your visit to Majorca?”

Douglas is smirking as Martin slams the front door with a huff and flings his bag into the shoe rack.

“I think that we should never tell, mention, allude to or hint at that trip ever again,” Martin replies tetchily.

“Come now, you didn’t mess up the landing that badly. We were all alive at the end of it.”

“One of the passengers threatened to sue.”

“She was American, the first instinct for an American whenever something mildly annoying happens is to threaten to sue.”

Martin throws himself onto the sofa and sighs heavily.

“Oh don’t sulk, Martin. The passenger isn’t going to sue, she wouldn’t dare after Carolyn’s little chat.”

“I know,” Martin mutters. “But she didn’t have to shout about it in front of everyone.”

“Martin, she was an American.”

He laughs.

“Yeah, yeah I suppose you’re right.”

“I’m always right, Martin,” he says, noting the message icon blinking on the phone. “I thought you knew that by now.” He presses the button and goes to hang his jacket up by the door.

“Hello Mr Richardson, it’s Heather from Fitton General. I’m calling to tell you that your biopsy results are in, if you come for a consultation ASAP. Thank you, b-“

He stabs the delete button. For three days he’s managed to keep the thoughts of the results, the biopsy, the bloody c word to a minimal couple of minutes a day and now here they all are, ambushing all at once with a friendly, feminine voice. The spring to his step snaps, the lightness of his mood sinks and suddenly he wants to join Martin in sulking on the sofa.

“Fucking reality,” he curses under his breath.

He feels slow circles being rubbed between his shoulder blades and the warmth that can only come from a human blankets his left side.

“We can go tomorrow if you like,” Martin says quietly. “Get it over with.”

Douglas nods. He doesn't trust his vocal chords at the moment.

“It’ll be okay,” Martin assures them both. “It’ll be okay.”

But they are both thinking the same thing. Urgency. I hate urgency.

~*~

It isn’t intentional.

It isn’t planned.

They lie together on their bed, facing each other with blank expressions, conveying nothing, hands idly resting on shoulders and waists. Their eyes connect like magnets and they stare. They stare and they commit every pigment of colour, every irregularity, every patch of reflected lamplight to memory. They blink languidly, relishing in the sight before them completely unchanged when their eyes open again. This is a thin form of certainty but after so much upheaval, it’s a welcome change.

They only close their eyes when they kiss. Long, slow and tender. Like they are frozen in time and tomorrow isn’t even on the horizon. Their lips are soft and just a little damp. They are warm and comforting and with their eyes closed all their attention is focused on the feel of each other. The slightest movement, a flick of a tongue against lips that part willingly, the way their skin is alive with sensation but it all seems dulled, like it’s felt through a thick blanket.

Fingers roam up and down arms, wind around waists to stroke spines, thread through hair, caress scalps. They are free agents, their owners relinquishing control for the evening, minds on far more important things. They feel freely, taking in and cataloguing the differences in texture between polyester shirts, soft skin and rough hair. They seek out the new, the different, anything, wanting as much as they can get before they are restrained once again.

Not a word is breathed between them, they let go to instinct. Undo belts and unzip trousers while in a kind of trance, coming back to themselves to kiss as they hold each other in steady hands. They stroke while their fingers feel the moving skins and veins underneath them and they only part their lips when the need for oxygen is too great.

Reaching into the top draw in a bedside table is done together, with joined hands. The small tube is sandwiched between clasped hands and the adventurous fingers suddenly find themselves with a new colder, wetter sensation. Trousers are pushed away, the fact the fabric is coarser than the shirts is noted first, and legs are finally brought into movement, parting easily.

They gasp when fingers enter a confining warmth and the huffs of air are swallowed by lazy lips that connect without haste or coordination. The fingers move on their own, stretching, pushing, withdrawing, cataloguing. And soon whole bodies are moved into action to stretch out one atop the other, still kissing, still exploring.

They join in one slow, fluid movement, full of gasps and low moans felt on hot breath. Fingers and palms return to see what areas of backs and arms were missed. Lips join together. Hips move as one. All slow. All unhurried. All heated by a comforting softness of atmosphere where the feel of a tightened muscle in the back is so much more erotic than a brutal thrust. Nothing is violent, nothing is urgent. For once urgency has no place. They don’t care about tomorrow. Tomorrow doesn't exist. They wouldn’t care if it never did.

The coil of warmth creeps dreamily down to the pit of their stomachs, the languor in the motions keeping its advance at a slow pace. But release does find them with shuddering and low whines. And their eyes are open again, staring past the irises into the depths. A wide, gentle smile stretches Martin’s cheeks as he stares up in sleepy adoration. Douglas just stares. And stares. And stares.

Then all of a sudden two salty beads of water fall and land on Martin’s sharp cheekbones. Another follows them. Martin regains control and winds his fingers in Douglas’ hair, canting his eyebrows and smiling still as he does. Douglas’ lowers his head to Martin’s chest, listening to the strong beat of his heart and letting more tears escape.

“I don’t want to leave you,” he whispers. Two more tears flee.

Martin sets his face in an expression of determination and tells the ceiling earnestly, “I won’t let you leave me.”

Douglas smiles even as another tear leaves.

“Because of course the whole world bows to Sir’s will.”

“It should do,” Martin chuckles. “Getting you to bow to my will was difficult enough”

“I could point out the number of things wrong with that sentence,” Douglas tells Martin’s ribcage, “but life’s too short.”

They both tense.

“You aren’t going anywhere,” Martin says firmly, winding and arm around Douglas’ shoulder, adding, “because I say so.”

They stay silent for a while. Still connected, still together, at least for a little while longer, arms clutching, fingers resting.

“I love you,” Martin breathes into the cooling air.

“I love you,” Douglas says against slick skin.

They don’t fall asleep, they can’t, but they stay contentedly still as the euphoria dissipates and tomorrow starts to arrive in a sickly orange glow on the horizon.

~*~

The kettle has been boiled and left to cool three times now. Martin doesn't know what to do with himself. He periodically thinks that tea would be a good idea and when the click of the switch is heard he tells himself to stop being ridiculous and stares out of the kitchen window instead. He keeps repeating one percent in his mind like a mantra. Like a prayer.

Outside the sun is glowing, crawling its way up the sky. There are small insects buzzing around the flowers. There’s dew on leaves, glittering in the sun like diamonds. Martin sighs. Such a wonderful morning, he’s never usually awake at this time, well he is sometimes but then he’s running around like a headless chicken checking and double checking everything before a van job or leaving for the airfield. He’s never had the time to just watch. To watch the world slowly open its eyes to the sun that fights against the onset of winter to keep its hours of duty long.

He turns to the kitchen, their kitchen. Well cleaned counter tops, sparkling fridge and oven and the dishwasher that Douglas had fought to get despite Martin’s insistence that it was just being lazy, cupboards, endless cupboards, one with a broken hand. In fact he’s been meaning to fix that one by oven for weeks, he might do it actually, when he gets back from...

Everything looks better in the sunlight. Rose tinted glasses have nothing on it. And everything looks so much better, so much more brilliant, when you’re scared that soon, it’ll all be gone.

~*~

Douglas sits on the edge of the bed wondering why the word ‘doomsday’ keeps coming to his mind. He’s the one who’s been telling Martin to get a grip. But now it’s here and he’ll find out. One way or the other. This is D-day, well, technically it’s Thursday. He smiles. Martin would have laughed at that.

The room is dark. The curtains are still drawn and this room faces south-west so it never does get the sun in the mornings. But the view of the sunsets from here is truly stunning. Even the bed sheets are dark, chocolate brown. Douglas had raised an eyebrow at Martin when he’d bought them, saying the colour had no business anywhere near a bedroom. Martin had just laughed and said it would bring out Douglas’ eyes. Douglas had shook his head and called him a pansy. Douglas runs his hands over the fabric now, thinking that he would actually miss these sheets if...

So much could happen with one word. Chemotherapy, radiotherapy, surgery, he would actually have to lose his testicle. He’d been searching it all up when Martin wasn’t looking. Just so he knew or had some inkling of what could be coming his way.

He shakes his head in the dark bedroom. How can a head so full of information be so full of uncertainty. He’s spent the whole morning preparing himself for the worst and even now he still doesn't think he’s completely ready. Even Martin is probably more ready than him and that is a most irksome thought. The lord alone knows what he’ll do if the word ‘malignant’ is there in grim black writing. As long as he doesn't burst into tears, he thinks that as long as he doesn't do that, he’ll at least have his dignity.

He looks around the room again, eyes falling on the side of the bed Martin always occupies. He isn’t ready to leave this all behind yet. He isn’t ready to hear the dreaded words. He isn’t ready.

The clock on the table ticks.

~*~

The drive to the hospital is horribly short. They’d both been expecting at least some form of traffic to delay them so they could tut and say ‘typical’ a lot like they were just going on a picnic and this was a mildly infuriating waste of their precious day. But it was a clear path the whole way through.

Martin never feels particularly comfortable at the wheel of Douglas’ Lexus, he’s always terrified that he’ll scuff the paintwork or stall it or just his unlucky presence will cause it to have a nervous breakdown. But it seems to like him and it was only after the Lexus’ approval that he was allowed to move in with Douglas. Or so they tell people, just to see the look on their faces that shows they are torn between thinking that’s lovably eccentric and calling the nearest mental institution.

The hospital car park is surprisingly empty too, no one rushing around with bloodied bandages, no women in labour, no elderly people shuffling along. It seems horrendously post-apocalyptic. They get out of the car in silence, closing the doors carefully. Douglas gives the roof a little pat before he heads towards the door resolutely ignoring the feeling that the bottom of his stomach has just dropped.

Martin talks to the receptionist. She gives Douglas a quick, unreadable glance and indicates to a chair. Douglas sits down, numb even to how hard the plastic is. Martin wraps his fingers around Douglas’ and they wait patiently amidst the coughs and sneezes that if the old posters are to be believed spread diseases. Douglas smiles in faint memory. Martin smiles to, a bit wider and Douglas’ smile moves to match his. They look at each other and nod. They understand.

His name is called and he gets up, keeping hold of Martin’s hand as he walks into an office. The doctor is there, looking a bit harried, like this is just a blip in his day. They aren’t sure if that’s good or bad.

He flips through a file, clicks the computer mouse a couple of time’s with a frown. Looks away from the screen, looks back, frowns again. Douglas is inches away from tapping his feet. _Get on with it man_ , he thinks, _it isn’t an award ceremony._

“Ah,” the doctor says finally, brightly, having apparently found what he was looking for, and he removes a piece of paper from a file. He looks it over, turns it and pushes it across the desk.

Martin squeezes Douglas’ hand as Douglas takes a deep breath and reaches out for the page. He holds it in his slightly shaking grip and reads. Martin leans a little and focuses his eyes on the paper. They both stare.

Never has the word benign looked so beautiful.


End file.
